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My mother is beautiful.
Amy often thought that about Julianne, but never more than tonight as she watched her mother knead the dough for fettucine. Back and forth Julianne rocked, massaging magic into flour and water, sending up little puffs of white from the black granite countertop. At forty-one, Julianne still had slim, toned arms from years of kneading and whisking and chopping. Her face was aglow from the effort, and her temple was streaked with flour.Baker’s war paint,her mother called it, and tonight Julianne the baker was happily engaged in battle, her sleeves rolled up, her favorite striped apron tied around her waist. Amy’s father was working the evening shift at the hospital tonight, so it was just the two of them for dinner. Girls’ night, which meant they could eat whatever they wanted.
Tonight it was fettucine with fresh asparagus. Julianne fed the dough again and again through the pasta maker, rolling the sheets ever thinner. Amy grated lemon zest, releasing its sharpand bracing scent. Teamwork, her mother always said. You and me against the world.
An hour later, they savored the result: glistening nests of fettucine, fragrant with lemon and parmesan. They bypassed the dining room and carried their plates straight to the living room. To the TV. No rules tonight, Julianne said. It’s just us girls.
And a girls’ movie was what they chose to watch.Pride and Prejudice,which would thoroughly bore Amy’s dad, but tonight he wasn’t there. Tonight they could sit in front of the TV in their nightclothes and swirl pasta into their mouths as they watched Keira Knightley charm the diffident Mr. Darcy. If only women still wore such beautiful dresses! If only men reallywereattracted to a woman’s sharp wit and keen intelligence!
“Some men are,” said Julianne. “The good ones are. Like your dad.”
“Where are all those good ones?”
“You just have to be patient and not settle. Never settle. You deserve the best.” Julianne reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind Amy’s ear, her fingers lingering on Amy’s cheek. “You deserve to be happy.”
“I am happy.”
Julianne smiled. “Shall I rub some lotion on your leg? We need to keep it up.”
Amy lifted her nightgown to her hip, exposing the ugly scar from her operation. It had been months since the surgeons had pinned her shattered thighbone back together. Her leg still ached in cold weather and the healed wound was an angry red ridge. She could hide that scar under a skirt, but it would always be there, a flaw waiting to be exposed by a trip to the beach or a moment of intimacy. Would the cream that Julianne rubbed on every night make the scar fade? Amy didn’t know, but this was their nightly ritual now, her mother stroking in the lotion,massaging it into that ridge of scar. On TV, Keira Knightley was finally kissing her Mr. Darcy, while here on the sofa, Amy’s eyes drifted shut and her body went limp with contentment. Even when the telephone rang and Julianne got up to answer it, Amy didn’t stir, but waited in that warm and liquid state.Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy.
“Who is this?” Julianne said.
Amy opened her eyes and languidly turned to look at her mother, who stood with the phone pressed to her ear.
“Who is this?”
The edge in Julianne’s voice made Amy pay attention. She watched as her mother hung up. For a moment Julianne stood motionless, staring at the phone.
“Mom? Who called?”
“Just a wrong number.”
Amy expected Julianne to come back to the sofa, to join her in watching the end credits toPride and Prejudice,but Julianne went to the front window. She stood there for a moment, peering out at the street, then closed the curtains. Went to the next window and closed those curtains as well. She turned to Amy and smiled. “What do you think? Another movie?”
“No.” Amy yawned. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Yes, you look tired. Do you need help getting upstairs?”
“I’m fine.” Amy pushed herself off the sofa and reached for her cane. “I can’t wait to get rid of this thing.”
“Let’s make a ceremony of it! A cane-burning party. I’ll bake a cake.”
Amy laughed. “Of course you will.”
She hobbled up the stairs, one hand on her cane, the other on the railing. She could feel her mother’s gaze on her, watching. Always watching over her. Safely at the top of the stairs, she turned to wave goodnight, expecting to see her mother waveback, but Julianne wasn’t even looking at her. Instead she was punching in the code on the foyer security keypad: 5429. System armed.
“Goodnight!” Amy called down to her.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” said Julianne, and she went to the window. She was still standing there, still staring out at the night, as Amy limped away to bed.
